


The Veranda

by thirdsleeper



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, it's their trip to Rome, mild spoilers!, salacious acts etc, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 19:22:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15564726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdsleeper/pseuds/thirdsleeper
Summary: Bunny drummed his fingers along the banister as they climbed, careless rhythms on the polished stone. Henry wanted to tie his hands behind his back, shove a sock in his mouth, nail him to a cross, anything, anything for silence.But Rome was a well-lit city of witnesses, so instead he just unbuttoned his cuffs and watched Bunny lumber up to the suite, nail marks red and bright below the shell of his ear.





	The Veranda

**Author's Note:**

> Seefin asked, I answered (but honestly, why are you reading this when her fic is so much better?? when you're done with this go treat yourself to real writing she's on a03 with that handle!!) I haven't read The Secret History in a hot minute but i HAVE been on a lot of open air porches and consumed a lot of red wine so I'm qualified for the prompt, enjoy
> 
> I haven't posted since 2016 but if you'd like to reach me for some godforsaken reason you can do so at makos-mori on tumblr

Seventy-two hours in Rome saw Henry sweat his way through four shirt collars, a pair of long silk pajama pants, six pairs of underwear, countless black socks, and two linen dinner jackets; all of this he endured with stoic masochism and a pint of righteousness, especially as Bunny draped himself across chaise lounges and threw himself into fountains, moaning about the heat. Henry just watched, inscrutable, and silently changed shirts, again. Then again. The Roman summer was ferocious, but so was the Winter family propriety.

 

“You’ve got to eat something other than gelato.”

Bunny looked up, mid-bite. “Says who?”

Henry felt his glasses slip down his nose, slick with perspiration. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was Bunny.

“We’re in the birthplace of Italian cuisine,” Henry snapped. “Have some respect.”

Bunny just laughed, chocolate sauce dripping onto his arm, and a something Henry’s gut simmered. Across the piazza a motorcyclist cussed loudly to accompany a flurry of honking. Tourists stared. Bunny slurped away and kept flipping through the newspaper, an English one he made Henry fetch that morning. It was near three in the afternoon now, late enough to be peak humidity and early enough to wonder if the day-- no, if the trip would ever end.

“If you wanted to wine and dine me, you should’ve just said, Winter,” Bunny said. “We can go to Il Convivio, if you absolutely insist.”

Henry’s fingers clenched on the stem of his wine glass. It was one of the priciest spots in town and Bunny knew it, in the same way he ferreted out the palazzo’s suite and what box at the opera had the best view. He may be a buffoon, but he was a bloodhound for money. More frustrating was how he couldn’t even appreciate luxury when Henry bent over backwards to procure it. He had long given up expecting any sort of gratitude, but to see Ariodante sung in the native Italian, in Rome, for Christ’s sake, and still needle him into leaving during the first intermission? Edmund Corcoran wouldn’t know genuine luxury if it hit him with a Vespa at thirty miles an hour.

“Anything but this,” Henry sighed, glancing around the square. They sat down at the cafe for lunch and now the busboys were beginning to gather outside, smoking cigarettes and casting petulant glares in their direction, impatient to close before dinner.

Bunny messily folded his newspaper, either one page away from figuring out the reason they were there or finding the comics. “Never anything interesting in the papers nowadays. You’d think the Italians don’t do a thing but make bad movies and worse cars.” He met Henry’s gaze, deliberately nonchalant. “Wonder if you’d be able to find a copy of the New York Times around here.”

Henry felt a headache bloom at the base of his skull. 

 

"Ever wonder why all these old stone geezers have such tiny dicks?"

"Indoor voice, please, Bunny-"

"Because if you're going to spend that much time hammering a hog out of marble, it ought to be a little more... statuesque, eh?"

"If you must know, Edmund, the Italian academy considered the testes to be more indicative of man's prowess-- now you've gone and gotten the bishop's attention, act pious."

"Jesus Christ, you're right, Henry, would you look at the size of that SACK-"

"Signori!"

 

They never spoke of the bacchanal, even as newspapers piled up on Bunny’s nightstand and rustled in the breeze on the suite’s veranda. But plate after plate of venison was ordered to the room and left to fester until the maids arrived. Dionysus starred on every postcard Bunny bought. Somehow a bottle of cabernet from California made its way onto the wet bar, the same label Henry had picked out with Camilla before they drove out to the country house and ruined their lives. He remembered the look of Francis’s mouth on the bottle, hand carelessly wrapped around the neck, drops of wine on his chin. Charles licked them off, Henry recalled, or maybe he had been the one to start it. Always the instigator. The night was a mess in his head and any moment he needed to sort through the bramble was interrupted by Bunny putting on a record or hollering out of the bathroom asking for more lemongrass soaps. It was enough to drive a man to murder.

 

"I'd like to head back to the room, Bunny, if you've had enough to drink."

"One more round, m'pal, some girls in th'corner that wanna talk with me."

"Won't Marion be disappointed?"

"Fuck you, whatta ‘bout Camilla? I mean, Charles? Fuck you."

"You're drunk, Bun.”

 

Henry had planned to stick close and keep Bunny away from English speakers, but after hours of tracking him through humid side streets and crowded monuments, not a single air conditioner in the city, the idea lost its urgency. He never thought he'd be able to pick out the set of Bunny's shoulders in a room full of German sight see-ers and 17th century frescos, but he was always a fast learner.

Especially with Bunny tailing him just as ruthlessly. To the bank, to the washroom of the art museum, even to the phone booth. He half expected Bunny to squeeze in next to the coin slot and steal his quarters. Instead, Bunny skulked around outside pretending to look at a church facade while Henry pressed the dirty receiver to his pounding temple and asked Camilla to wire as much money as she could stand, told her if he got out of Rome alive they were all fucking off to Brazil to start a cacao farm. When he left the phone booth, Bunny trotted over to ask, under the orange glow of the streetlights, if Henry would show a little kindness and share what he had been hiding for the past weeks. Henry hit him so hard Bunny spun to the dirt and he felt his own vision pinprick, blur, and collapse.

 

“Rough night?” the concierge asked them, in Italian, as Bunny helped Henry hobble through the lobby, arm slung over his broad shoulder. Both of them were covered in dust and sweat. Henry had the distinct feeling he might have sprained an ankle. Bunny touched the bruise swelling on his All American cheekbone, courtesy of the Winter family propriety, and grinned.

Henry broke free and limped to the desk, summoning his high school Italian. If he didn’t get something to stop this headache before it started, the trip was over. “Do you have sumatriptan?”

“What’d you say?” Bunny sidled up. His Italian was worse than Henry’s, somehow.

“Su-ma-trip-tan?” the concierge repeated, fumbling to slide a pad of paper across the desk. Henry scrawled the word, hand aching, head aching.

The concierge looked sheepish. “My apologies, let me call Florian, his English is better than mine.”

“Just send whatever pain pills you have up to 509.” Henry gritted his teeth and followed Bunny up the staircase. No elevators here, just bone white marble steps winding past columns and portraits and alcoves for statues of the Virgin Mary. Bunny drummed his fingers along the banister as they climbed, careless rhythms on the polished stone. Henry wanted to tie his hands behind his back, shove a sock in his mouth, nail him to a cross, anything, anything for silence.

But Rome was a well-lit city of witnesses, so instead he just unbuttoned his cuffs and watched Bunny lumber up to the suite, nail marks red and bright below the shell of his ear.

 

"Finally bored, Corcoran?"

"Yeah. Are you?"

"Absolutely."

 

"Christ, it's hot today."

"Thank you for informing me."

"Don't look at me like that."

 

Henry woke up wanting to die. White, everything was blinding white and loud, too, a roar to the left making the skin on his whole body feel like it was inflamed, then the tap squeaked off and heavy footsteps set waves of pain rolling from the crown of his skull to his jawbone.

"I'm running to the piazza for lunch, can I borrow a ten? I'm out of euros."

Henry was paralyzed. The sheets clung to him, sticky with sweat and like sandpaper to the touch.

"Sleep the day away, see what I care. I'm borrowing your wallet, back in a flash."

The door slammed shut. Fury overtook his mind. Henry blacked out.

 

Francis once got Henry high and asked how migraines felt. Like headaches, but everywhere, all at once? he asked. Like napping on a bed of needles, naked? And Henry said, It's like a body trying to give birth and be reborn at the same time. Then Francis grabbed Henry's chin and shotgunned another hit into his mouth and things took a turn.

 

When he emerged from the darkened bedroom, Henry didn't know what day it was, or even what time. He needed a drink, or a bullet to the head. With a crumpled white dress shirt hanging off his frame and no trousers to be found, the wet bar would have to do. He uncorked the bottle of cabernet with trembling hands and carried it onto the veranda. The air was still and heavy; perfect, for the first time on this godforsaken trip. Henry dropped to the plush rug, leaned against the chaise, and sipped until his limbs went slack, transmuting the haze on his brain into a gentle buzz while the sun slid down into the horizon.

Eventually Bunny stepped into the doorway and spotted him. "He's alive!"

Before Henry could respond he turned inside and reappeared a moment later with a second bottle of wine before flopping down onto the rug opposite, disheveled and glowing, stinking of gin. Inexplicably this drew a smile on Henry’s face, even as Bunny launched into the same inane chatter that made him want to push them both into the canal.

"You won't believe the day I've had."

“Oh?”

“This bozo at the restaurant tripped on a dog’s leash…”

He yammered on, gesticulating wildly and deftly uncorking the bottle, while Henry neared the dregs of his own. It was almost like the first months of school again, when Bunny would show up at the apartment with a handle from the grocery store and Charles in tow, all three of them getting steadily sloshed as the afternoon sun came through the drapes. They’d riff on and on about Meleager and translations, or whatever trash was at the movie theater in town, Bunny’s relationship woes, Henry and Charles’ conspicuous lack of, the girls on campus, the guys at the parties, Julian, death, bliss, handjobs, anything they wanted.

Those afternoons were less frequent now. Henry didn’t realize how much he missed hearing Bunny talk.

“So I’m standing in the fountain and the couple doesn’t even want the damn picture anymore!” Bunny finished. He swallowed a mouthful of wine, lips stained. “I should have drowned the camera then and there, just for making me ruin my shoes.”

“πάθει μάθος,” Henry said, which came out to something along the lines of knowledge through suffering and took the bottle out of Bunny’s hands for a swig of his own. Reds made him feel indulgent and loose, like a silk sheet tethered to the line by a single clothespin.

“Always showing off,” Bunny replied, reaching across the carpet to steal the bottle back. But there was no bite in his words, just the scent of wine on his breath as his body rose up and retreated. They shared a few more silent passes before Henry set the bottle down and tipped his head back on the cushions. Bunny slid down on the carpet, hands on his stomach, feet on a flowerpot and head on Henry’s calf. His hair short and prickly at the nape of his neck. He looked like a movie star.

“I prefer quiet Bunny to all the other Bunny’s,” Henry said, almost to himself, reaching out to set a hand on Bunny’s face, to cover his mouth. He felt a puff of hair as Bunny laughed at that, and it felt so good-- not many people could tell when Henry was telling a joke but Bunny always thought everything about him was a joke, and wasn’t that just the kicker.

Bunny stuck out his tougue, childish as ever, and licked a wet stripe across Henry palm, grimacing. “You taste like sweat, old man.”

But then he did it again. And maybe one of Henry’s fingers found its way between his lips. And maybe Bunny looked up, then, face blank in the warm light, and closed his mouth around it. Maybe, in the throes of the migraine, Henry dreamt them pressing together on the rug, hesitant, in no rush at all, not making eye contact but stealing what they could from each other. A kiss on the side of the neck. A hand tucked in a waistband.

Bunny had Henry cornered against the cushions but Henry had his fingers on Bunny’s chest, and the first pass of a thumb across his nipple made Bunny grip Henry’s hair so tightly his eyes watered. He did it again, partly for the sting and partly to get a rise out of Bunny, because that was his area of expertise. Retaliation was swift: Bunny bit into his clavicle and shoved a reckless hand down his briefs, pulling Henry’s attention rapidly south. He fell still as Bunny tugged a few short strokes, When their eyes met, Henry bucked his hips up, just once, testing. A few more, slower, a twist of the hand, Bunny’s open lips on his throat. Seconds later, Henry’s underwear was across the veranda and his knees were split open by Bunny’s thighs.

“Inside,” Henry breathed. “Not in front of the tourists.”

Bunny grumbled and did something creative with his wrist that made it hard to see straight.

“For God’s sake-”

“Okay, okay.”

They managed to get into a bed, Henry ridding Bunny of his pants and shirt on the way there to even the playing field. The motions weren’t unfamiliar for Henry, but nothing about Bunny’s broad frame was like Francis or the boy at Latin camp or the teaching assistant from freshman year. Henry was tall and solid, but Bunny was uniquely dense in a way that took the air out of the room, made it feel like there was no place to go but here, broiling under the heat of his body and desperate to get closer.

“Do you have any-” Bunny began.

“No, should we-” Henry couldn’t finish the sentence because suddenly there was a tongue on his cock.

Bunny paused. “You’ll figure something out. You always do.” He slid his mouth down and Henry couldn’t stop a groan. All week, some part of him had toed this line, a Venn diagram of fight, flight, or fuck slowly closing in on itself, and now he was coming undone at the hands of the one person he was supposed to be evading.

Bunny pushed his knees a little further apart, stretching him out. Henry savored the heat, digging a hand into Bunny’s scalp, senseless with his unsteady rhythm, the stuttering suck of his mouth. But as soon as a telltale pressure began to unspool in his gut, he pulled back and grappled until Bunny was on all fours, head hung low as Henry wrapped an arm around his waist from behind, the other dragging up and down along his back. Slicking his hand, Henry began to jerk Bunny off, the only sound his hand on skin and Bunny’s short breaths. He slid Bunny’s knees further apart and traced two fingers over his asshole, pressed a bite into his shoulder blade, sped up the pace, and pressed a finger into Bunny’s ass, just up to the first knuckle.

Bunny’s cock twitched in Henry’s hand and his back arched, pushing to meet the digit at the second knuckle, then the third. Bunny said something into the pillow.

“What?” Henry stopped.

“More,” Bunny repeated, low, rocking his hips.

As he had all week, Henry obliged, this time with a second long finger and a curling motion. His own dick was rock hard, pressed against Bunny’s ass, and he began to rut his own hips to relieve some of the pressure even as both of his hands worked Bunny into a shaking wreck.

“More, God, more-”

Henry was going to combust. When the third finger squeezed past the ring of muscle, Bunny went utterly, utterly silent, mouth wide open, clenching down and coming all over Henry’s hand. It only took one look at his face for Henry to follow, quaking against Bunny’s back. Neither spoke.

 

It happened again before they left, after bickering for three straight hours over dinner at a restaurant that seemingly set out to prove cost is never a mark of taste. Bunny stormed out, Henry followed, and within ten minutes they were half naked in a cafe bathroom.

But that was the last time. Because Bunny found out, inevitably, what happened, and everything went to shit, and Henry was almost glad for the excuse to put those humid days to rest in his mind. Every so often he’d catch Bunny looking at him, something dark and possessive in his eyes, but now that stare could mean anything. Henry knew Bunny, knew everything about him. How he took his coffee, what commercials made him laugh, the tightening of his jaw when he came. Henry knew him in life and death and everything in between, and it was over, when Bunny’s face went slack, he couldn’t help but remember the last time Bunny went quiet, and how there was no way to appreciate silence if silence was all you had.


End file.
